


little blue flower

by umiwomitai



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Grief/Mourning, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Strangers to Lovers, Witches, only mentions of it, sort of but the characters are already passed pre-story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umiwomitai/pseuds/umiwomitai
Summary: Yuta is probably a witch, if the weird atmosphere around him is enough of a given, and Mark is so focused on not falling under his spell he forgets the most important. He forgets not to fall in love.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	little blue flower

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Wow. This is the first thing I've finished writing in a long, long time, so I'm pretty happy about that. 
> 
> Regarding the tags, there are multiple mentions of passed away family members, nothing too heavy or sad, but if that's something you're sensitive about I'd advise not to read this. For the rest, no other warning is needed, so please enjoy.

The car is humming loudly as soon as it is turned on, and Mark puts on some music to cover it. A headache is already forming at the idea of having to drive at night, and he immediately regrets deciding to leave so early when he pulls up on the highway. Yet the road is clear, save for a few coaches and lorries, and his headache leaves just as quickly. 

It will be a smooth, calm ride. 

  
  


The wind is blowing through the shutters, whistling a piercing and annoying song. It has been blowing for three days straight and doesn’t seem tired of it. Yuta, however, has grown wary and can’t get one more second of sleep like this. 

He sighs, sitting up in his bed before pulling away the sheets. His head is pounding but his feet hit the soft, fluffy carpet; it’s just too early. He doesn’t want to be awake once again, when he knows it will be yet another day of hopeless waiting and gardening. At least he has coffee to look forward to. 

He goes down the spiraling staircase, skipping the one where his cat is sleeping, legs and tail hanging over the step. Yuta yawns, scratching the cat behind the ears, and it opens its eyes for a second before them again.

“I agree, Cinnamon, it’s definitely too early,” he complains, leaning his head in the soft fur of its belly. The cat doesn’t move an inch. 

Yuta opens the fridge, grabbing a couple of eggs and a jar of purple liquid. He starts whistling too as he prepares breakfast, breaking the eggs in a pan and cutting two slices of fresh bread before putting them in the toaster. Soon enough, the whole room smells like toast and eggs, soft music echoing on every wall without really coming from anywhere specific. 

The man yawns again, and a third time, leaning against the stove. His oversized shirt hangs over the fire, once, twice, before Yuta leans back. His eggs are ready. 

He takes his plate and a mug of smoking hot coffee to the terrace, sitting down on the wooden floor, feet hanging from it. He munches on the toasts and eggs, sipping his coffee. His long hair floats with the force of the wind but he doesn’t seem to mind it. Cinnamon comes to join him after a moment, purring and rubbing against his sides. 

“I need to fix the shutters.”

The cat looks at him fixedly for a minute or two, before Yuta shrugs. 

“Better late than never,” he commented with a smile that showed no teeth. 

He then looks at the clouds as if looking for something. There is nothing out of the ordinary there, simply grey clouds as far as anyone can see, moving fast with the force of the wind. There is nothing, yet Yuta stands up, looks some more, and as he seems to notice something, he turns around with his breakfast in hand. 

“I forgot the juice.” 

Cinnamon lays down on the terrace, not looking back. He seems to be looking for something too, at the back of the garden, but there is nothing but flowers and the tree branches dancing enchantingly. 

  
  


It takes Yuta the rest of the morning to clean his kitchen and fix all of the shutters. The weather clearly isn’t helpful as he tries very hard to stay stable on his ladder to screw in the new planks. When he’s finished, he turns around, wiping his sweat with the back of his sleeve, looking at the sky. 

There are a few sun rays peeking out here and there, too far to warm him over, but close enough so he can see them clearly. In an hour or two, the clouds will probably have cleared over his house too. Yuta smiles, to himself or to the sky, before sliding down. He opens the entrance door wide, taking off his boots and his working clothes, before saying to Cinnamon loudly:

“It’s time, sweetheart.” 

The cat barely moves from its comfy cushion, simply opening its eyes a few times. Yuta doesn’t seem to mind, as he goes from one room to another in a rush, scattering clothes all over the place. The ring of a bell coming from upstairs makes him stop dead in his tracks, peering up. 

“Uh oh,” Yuta whispers, eyes growing wide. 

On the couch, Cinnamon stretches and yawns, looking at him with a tired look. 

“I had forgotten about this.” 

In a flutter, he’s gone up and down back again, fully dressed. He grabs a basket and a straw hat before heading out. He looks at the sky one last time as the clouds are slowly starting to stretch away. 

He needs to be quick. 

  
  


Mark gets to the town center quicker than he’d thought. Seeing as it’s market day and the plaza is full of food stands and other sellers, he figures it’s for the best. He decides to park a bit further, closer to the limits of the town. He turns off his car and rests his head on the steering wheel for a second. His headache is still very much here. 

He yawns, grabs his phone and car keys and gets off. He stretches, shivering as he feels the wind hit his face. At least it isn’t raining anymore. He opens his trunk, retrieves his bag, and shuts his car. This far from any living being, he hopes nothing will happen to it. 

He walks up to the town center, deciding to look around the market since he still has some time ahead. 

The smells are what hit him first: fresh cheese, bread baked just this morning, grilled vegetables, even flowers and perfume. The mix is quite shocking at first but it only gets better the more time he spends looking at every stand. He waves at the old ladies, smiles at the children running around, thanks the sellers with heartwarming words. 

As his bag fills with fresh bread, fresh flowers and a new hat, he realises it was worth getting up so early and driving all the way to this lost little town in the middle of nowhere. A woman even gives him a free rose and pins it to his sweater without speaking a word. He wants to thank her, flustered, but he gets distracted by a kid running right into his legs. By the time he’s done making sure the kid’s alright, the woman seems to have vanished again. 

“Ah, whatever, I’m staying a few days so I might see her again,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the rose. 

If he looks too close, it almost glows in the sun. 

“Excuse me, I think you dropped this?”

He turns around, shocked out of his thoughts by a strange looking man. He doesn’t mean to stare, he knows how rude it is, but he simply can’t help it. There in front of him is the most handsome man he’s ever seen, pretty in the strangest way. His hair is long and silver, his eyes are deep brown and enchanting, and his smile is too full of teeth to look real. He’s wearing a straw hat, shadowing his face from the sun, and a worn out, blue long-sleeved shirt under an overall that has only one buckle attached. 

Mark almost has to physically shake himself out of his trance to answer the question. In the man’s hand are his car keys. 

“Oh man, thank you for that,” he thanks him as he puts them back in his pockets. “I would be lost without them.”

“Quite literally,” the man replies with a smirk, “as the nearest garage is a handful of kilometres away.” 

Mark can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth. 

“I really owe you one, then.” 

“Guess you do,” the man says in a shrug, forcing one more laugh out of Mark. “I’m Yuta.”

“Oh! You’re Yuta!”

“Yes, indeed, I just told you.” 

“Ah, no, I mean… I’m Mark, Mark Lee? I was supposed to meet with someone named Yuta in…” he checks his watch quickly, looking back at the man, “6 minutes.”

“So you’re Mark Lee…” Yuta says pensively, which would have seemed odd if the man himself wasn’t already so peculiar. “Good. Come with me, then? Unless you still have something to do here.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, I’m full.” 

Yuta gives him a smile, a soft, somehow crooked one, and it feels almost like walking in a trap. Mark is way more willing to do so than he should. 

“Follow me then,” he commands nicely as he starts walking out of the marketplace. “And your watch is late.”

  
  


They walk through the thin, patchy country pathways, Mark’s eyes getting lost in the greenery as he follows Yuta. Once they reach the house, he focuses on it. He has no idea which way they came and realises it is not his smartest move. They’re standing in front of two big gardens with smartly overgrown flower patches in one, and simply overgrown plants in the other. He guesses that the latter is the one he’s been looking for. 

“Are we here?”

“Yup,” Yuta says in a groan, stretching. “I just need to drop this and get the keys, alright?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just look around the garden before.” 

“Be careful,” and Mark feels odd at how serious the man sounds.

What could possibly hurt him in an abandoned old garden? 

He shrugs it off, assuming it’s simply how the man is, and pushes open the small wooden gate. It squeaks as it opens, the wood scratching the floor. He steps in, slowly taking in the different smells. Roses, he knows them very well; wet grass too. The rest is more distant, pulling at his memories but not forming a clear image in his mind. He’s long forgotten the hours spent on a stool watching his mother cook while humming the songs on the radio. 

“You’re ok, there?”

He jumps at the voice and turns around, surprised to see Yuta so fast. Maybe he’s been lost in his memories longer than he thought. 

“Come along.”

Yuta walks up to the entrance, following a grass-covered stone pathway, and Mark joins him. The door squeaks horribly more than the gate, making Mark fear it will simply fall apart if they push it too much. It doesn’t. 

The smell takes him off guard as he steps in. It doesn’t smell rancid or dusty like you’d expect of an old house that’s been abandoned for almost a year now. Quite the contrary; it smells like fresh flowers even though none are displayed anywhere, and vegetable soup like the one his mother used to make. The rest of the house, however, still looks as abandoned as it should. The furniture is covered by long sheets or by dust, the lights are off, the curtains are drawn. 

“I meant to do some cleaning before you arrived, but I figured you might like to see as it is.”

Mark looks at him, puzzled, which makes him further his point. 

“You know, for memories and all.”

“Oh. It’s very considerate of you, but I’ve never been here.”

It’s Yuta’s turn to look puzzled, eyebrows raised. 

“Really?”

“Really. I never met my aunt either.”

Great aunt, actually. When Mark had received a letter saying that he was to present himself at the notary’s office for the reading of his late great aunt, he had thought it was a dumb joke or some kind of fraud. His father had been quick to tell him it wasn’t. Apparently, he still has (or rather, had) some family on his mother’s side that she had never told him about. They hadn’t spoken in ages, according to his father, and none of them had bothered to attend her funerals anyway, so he had never thought of telling Mark about it.

Yet now, he’s had to take two weeks off work to drive all the way across the country to empty the house that now was his and make sure it was proper enough to be sold. 

“Is family a sensitive topic?” Yuta asks softly, opening the curtains one by one. 

“Not really? My mother never talked about hers, I just assumed she had no one left.”

“Hm, I see.”

Mark walks around the living room, appreciating the creaks of the floorboard at each of his steps. He looks at the decorations on the shelves, mostly half empty colored bottles and ornate metal boxes. Instinctively, he expects to see pictures; he finds none. 

“Did you know her? My aunt.”

“Oh yes. She was a very fun lady, though often lost in her own little world. I think she loved flowers more than she loved people,” Yuta added after a moment, sounding a bit melancolic. “She was always nice to me.”

Mark nods politely, still unsure what to think of this whole ordeal. 

It was an odd feeling, to find out about a whole part of his mother’s life he didn’t know so long after her passing. He had sat for hours in his living room, looking at his photo album, wondering what else he could have possibly not known about her. What else she could have been embarrassed about enough not to tell him. 

After a long time spent thinking and thinking, he had decided it didn’t matter. Standing in the middle of the living room of someone close enough to leave him her whole possessions while remaining a complete stranger, it was hard to think it didn’t actually matter. 

“Did you really… not know her?” Yuta asks softly, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“Yes. I didn’t even know she existed.” 

He wants to ask so many questions to that man. He wants to know if she ever talked about his mother, his father, about the rest of the family. About him, even. Hell, he was her heir after all, she had had to know about him, right? 

Before he can muster the courage, Yuta pulls him towards the next room. It’s the kitchen, which seems more clean than the rest. Mark takes a seat at the table, still lost in an ocean of thoughts. He wishes he wasn’t alone in this. He wishes his father wasn’t so far away. He wishes his mother had told him about this aunt so he’d know what to do of this house. 

His house. 

“Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh yeah. I’m sorry, it’s simply a lot to take in.”

“I’m sure of that.”

He sits in silence for a long moment while Yuta busies himself around the kitchen, opening cabinets and putting some water to boil. 

Marks ends up focusing on him as he’d rather watch this weird little man work around the kitchen than to be stuck in his thoughts. It looks like he knows his way around, never looking for something for more than a few seconds, and he hums some odd tune as he does. Mark closes his eyes listening to him, and starts humming along.

It takes him back to his childhood house, legs hanging from a too big stool, head leaning on the counter, still sleepy from his afternoon nap but too stubborn to stay in bed and miss some time spent with his mother. He sighs heavily; this house is bringing back too many memories. 

“Here, have some tea.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It always cheers me up to have a cup!” Yuta says joyfully, and Mark can’t help smiling back. 

Maybe his smile is what cheers him up more than the tea. No one needs to know that. 

“Are you planning on sleeping here?”

Mark hums, washing the empty cups once they’re done with tea. He hasn’t looked at the bedroom yet, and has no idea what he will be eating for the next few days since he only thought of buying bread from the market. Simply thinking of having to sort through more old stuff to settle himself for the night makes him sigh. 

“You don’t seem so sure.”

“I don’t know. No one has lived here in months, and I’m tired from the trip. I don’t exactly have the motivation to prepare the bedroom for tonight,” he says in a laugh, trying to brush off his exhaustion. 

Yuta seems to pick it up anyway, as he seems to do with everything. Mark doesn’t think he’d be able to lie to this man if he ever tried. He’s already such a bad liar. 

“Stay over for tonight, then,” and it’s said so simply, with a warm smile and an absent-minded shrug, Mark forgets for a second that it is a stranger sitting in this kitchen. His kitchen. 

“I can’t accept.”

“Please, do. I haven’t had company in ages, and I’d feel bad leaving you in this old dusty house knowing you could sleep in my very comfortable couch.” 

“So you’re not offering me the bed?” Mark wants to melt at his own words, not catching himself fast enough to keep them from spilling. He’s already feeling the embarrassment burn his cheeks. 

“I’m taking it, unless you want to share.”

Mark is, for a second, taken aback by the answer. Then, his brain seems to register the underlying flirt and shameless smile Yuta is arboring, and it short-circuits. Mark is left standing there, hands gripping his drying rag so hard water drips from it on his feet, his entire face burning from embarrassment. 

“I’m joking, Mark,” Yuta ends up saying, probably feeling the poor boy won’t be ready to form words for the rest of the day if he doesn’t speak first. “The couch is more than proper, I’m sure you’ll sleep better in it than in whatever is left here.”

“Right… right,” Mark croaks out with difficulty. 

Yuta rises from his chair, putting it back against the table. He stretches, yawns, then puts his fists on his hips. He looks so much like the small, dangerously smart kid he used to avoid in high school that Mark wants to laugh. Or run. He does neither. 

“How about you come over, we have dinner and sleep at my house, and then we come back tomorrow to start the cleaning together?”

Mark wants to refuse everything, first out of politeness, then out of awkwardness. It’s odd enough he had to plan this whole meeting with a complete stranger because he so happened to be his dead great aunt’s neighbour, he had absolutely no will to make things any weirder. 

Yet he says yes, because he can almost feel the look of disapproval his dad would shoot at him if he were to refuse a polite invite, and because, let’s be honest, he is about to spend his time with a very handsome man, which he hasn’t had the chance to do in a very long time. He can’t possibly refuse this. 

So he says yes, and they take his stuff and leave the house, closing the creaking old door behind them. 

  
  


Yuta cooks, despite how many times Mark tells him he shouldn’t do everything on his own. They eat peacefully, Mark talking about himself and Yuta telling him stories about the local folks and the legends surrounding the village. Surprisingly enough, there are quite a lot of legends for such a small town, but Mark listens to them intently, drinking every word the way he would a good red wine. 

And they do end up on the couch, sipping red wine, Cinnamon purring on Yuta’s lap, while he keeps telling stories the way one would recount their own adventures. The couch is already prepared for the night, Mark has his pyjamas on, hands clutching the fluffiest pillow he’s ever touched. He feels himself drifting to sleep, and he tries to hold on, because they’re getting to the part where the fierce villager goes into the deepest part of the woods to go look for the witch and he wants to know what happens next.

But Yuta’s voice is so soft it soothes him. The last thing he hears is that the witch turns to the boy with a smile, before Mark falls asleep, drunk on wine and fairy tales and the image of Yuta smiling down at him. 

  
  


Yuta wakes up the next morning feeling cranky.

He sighs, sitting up in bed. It feels almost like a déjà-vu, with the wind whistling away outside, but the soft breathing of a sleeping boy on his couch and the raging headache that woke him up tell him, it’s not. He gets up, walking over every piece of clothing he’s left to lay on the floor and into the kitchen without a noise. 

On the couch, Mark is sleeping soundly, still curled up around the pillow like he was the night before. Cinnamon is nowhere to be seen but Yuta knows perfectly where he is; he isn’t too fond of strangers. In complete silence, he prepares breakfast and his best hangover remedy, because being wine drunk always feels like the best kind of drunk but the worst kind of hungover. 

Cinnamon comes back in the house strutting around when Yuta opens the door leading to the garden. He puts down the breakfast tray on the terrace, dusting off a couple of pillows to put them down. The wind has brought petals and stray leaves on the floor but he doesn’t mind it, stepping back inside to go and wake up Mark. 

They have a long day ahead of them.

  
  


They spend the whole morning sorting through the different boxes stored in the living room. Apparently, Mark’s great aunt had known she had little time left so she had started to sort out all of her belongings. Mark doesn’t think it brings much help in the end, since he doesn’t really intend to keep anything. 

Yuta helps, though. He tells Mark about every book and jar filled with mysterious dried herbs. He wraps up the more fragile decorations since Mark is so afraid of breaking something. He smiles at the old pictures and explains who is on it. The morning draws longer and longer, filled with long silences and dumb jokes to ease the tension. Because Mark can’t help it, everything about this house makes him tense, stressed out like he hasn’t been in a long time. 

There’s a feeling he can’t quite point out, can’t fully grasp, and yet it pulls and pushes and strains the more he stays inside. It’s in every nook, every corner, behind every book he takes off the shelves, inside every box he fills with old stuff he will donate. It’s watching him, surrounding him, smothering slowly but surely, until he has to go out for a breath of fresh air. 

He sits on the small stone steps leading to the backyard, breathing in softly. The wind has calmed down now and the only thing left is a small breeze grazing his cheeks. He closes his eyes, finally able to calm down. He opens his eyes again after a long moment, curious about this part of the garden he hasn’t seen yet. 

He gets up and walks along the flower beds, smiling at every bit of wildlife he can witness. There are also vegetables growing in the back, under the shadow of two huge trees; he thinks they are oaks. It takes him some time of strolling around before he notices something odd. This part of the garden is so well taken care of, so attended to compared to the front garden it feels like the house has never been abandoned. 

“Are you better?”

Mark jumps, turning around. Yuta is standing near the flowers, a glass of water in his hand. 

“I noticed you were a bit pale so I brought you this.”

He hands him the glass and Mark takes it with a grateful smile. They stand there in silence, only lulled by the slow song of wind in the leaves. 

“Thank you, for all this.”

“My pleasure, really.” 

“I mean it,” Mark insists, looking right into Yuta’s eyes. He does get lost there for a second but he doesn’t back down. 

“I told you,” Yuta whispers after only a second, but just a second too long, “I haven’t had someone to talk to in a long time.”

“Don’t people here like you?” Mark asks genuinely, because he’s seen how friendly the townspeople are, how could any of them not like Yuta?

“There is a reason my house is so far from the town,” he simply answers with a half warm smile. 

Mark doesn’t push any further, not sure he wants to hear the truth behind the answer. It’s only after most of the day has gone by that he wonders if it’s the same reason for his aunt’s house being just next to his. And then he wonders about how close they could have possibly been, just the two of them excluded from the village. 

He still doesn’t ask. 

Answers aren’t always good to hear. 

The days go by, and soon enough Mark heaves up the last box in his car. 

He managed to drive up the dirt roads all the way here, loading all the things he doesn’t want to keep and bringing them to the closest charities. It’s been a lot of work but it’s also been a lot of grateful smiles and happy faces so he’s glad he decided to get rid of everything. 

Yuta follows right behind, hands on his hips. 

“I think we’re done,” he says with a smile.

“I think so, yeah,” Mark adds, sighing. 

It’s strange also, the way Yuta has simply been sticking around without asking for anything in return. Oh, he still got a lot in return. In fact, Mark doesn’t know what he would have done with all the strangely shaped bottles and the dried flowers and the antique boxes that were scattered all around the place. It seemed his aunt had some weird hobby he couldn’t quite make sense off and, luckily enough or weirdly enough, Yuta had the same or a similar hobby that could make use of whatever those things were. 

To say that Mark has been entirely bewildered the whole time he’s spent here is an understatement. Being in this old house has felt like an out of this world experience, as if he’d stepped inside a bubble without realising and now he was just stuck somewhere time couldn’t reach him.

Maybe that was the house.

Or maybe it was Yuta.

Yuta in himself feels like time can’t ever reach him; like he stands outside of life, watching people as they go, almost touching but never really reaching. He feels the same way childhood memories do, Mark can never tell for sure whether they are real or not. He feels the same way the house does, like he will never understand the use and purpose of all the intricate things that have been placed here over time. 

Mark feels himself drawn to him and can’t seem to be able to explain it to himself; he doesn’t think he could explain it to Yuta either. Yet he wants to, feels like he has to, before he has to leave and go back to his normal, ongoing life. Before he has to burst this little bubble suspended over everything else and let himself fall hard, heavy. 

Or is he falling already, watching the way Yuta’s hair gets caught in his hairband, falling over his ears softly. 

Or has he fallen already, laughing at every single joke that breaks past Yuta’s too big mouth. 

Or did he fall the first day, the first time, seeing him with a dazzling smile and an extended hand as if he’d known him for thousands of years and he was just an old friend coming back home. 

He doesn’t want to overthink it, but then Yuta asks if he’s hungry, all smile and bright face, and Mark has to hold himself back from blushing and grabbing his hand eagerly. 

Yes. 

Maybe he has fallen already, but he still has time with him, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that much anymore. 

  
  


“That’s Melodie, and Diana.”

Mark nods, not sure how the conversation drifted so far from their starting point. He had a point at first, he thinks. 

It was his last day there, together with Yuta, before he had to leave again tomorrow. They had spent the day arranging the selling details with the realtor, designing Yuta as the responsible person on site if any emergency occurred, and it had been quite a weight off his shoulders. Then Yuta had insisted on going for a walk in the forest, telling him stories about the birds and the wildflowers and mystic creatures that were definitely living there too. After that, Mark had felt so tired they walked back home and he fell asleep immediately, cuddling Cinnamon on the couch. 

He woke up tousled and dizzy a couple of hours later, mouth too dry. The sun was starting to set and Yuta was in the kitchen setting down the table. They ate together, Mark trying hard not to focus on the fact it was their last meal like this. The two of them, still suspended in time, embraced by the warmth of the house and this odd lingering atmosphere that seems to always be here. 

Then they climbed to the rooftop, Mark discovering with shining eyes the beauty of the night sky when the clouds are too lazy to hide it. He sits there mesmerized, a glass of iced tea in his hand - or something close to tea, Yuta made it himself and it tastes like strawberries and cinnamon. He sits there, feet hanging just over the edge, snuggled up in a wool blanket next to Yuta, and his hand on his thigh feels warm. 

They started talking about the stars, because Mark is happy he can see so many more of them from here and name the ones he’s only seen in books or on TV, and they drifted from there incredibly fast. Now Yuta is giggling so close to his ear he can’t focus, but he thinks he is giving him the name of the hills they can barely see in the distance, no matter how bright the night is. 

“Are you sleepy?”

“Not yet. The nap did me some good.”

“It did,” Yuta agrees in a whisper, his hand barely squeezing his leg. 

Mark shivers but he knows it’s not the cold; Yuta doesn’t notice. He drinks the last of his glass and puts it down near him, leaning back on his hands to look up at the sky. He sighs, emptying his head of any thoughts; he doesn’t want to think about anything. Sometimes, feeling is simply enough. 

“Do you ever miss her, my aunt?” 

The question hangs in the air like a magic spell he just discovered, not sure what the effect will be when it lands. 

“A bit,” Yuta admits but he doesn’t sound sad; rather, he is smiling down at Mark. “She was a good woman, talented and stubborn.”

“Did she ever mention us? I mean, she probably didn’t know I exist, but…”

“Your mother?” He stops for a second, laying down, grabbing Mark’s hand to pull him down too. “She talked about her, once. She was very sick, you know, and I think she realised near the end that she’d let her last opportunity to talk to your mother again pass by.”

Mark feels his chest tighten at the thought of the old lady talking to Yuta about her regrets, probably unaware that his mother had died years and years before. 

“She wanted her to have the house, and everything inside. That’s what she told me. She gave me her will, so I could take care of it. Except…” 

“Except you didn’t find my mother.”

Yuta hums in agreement, leaning on his side to look at Mark. Mark tries very hard to stay focused on the sky, not ready to get lost in the boy’s eyes. He remembers too vividly the day he’d gotten that call in the middle of the afternoon, an unknown number he’d answered to without thinking. And then the man had asked for his mother, and he had almost laughed. Almost. 

Except it wasn’t truly funny, because she had been dead for so long now, so long he’d lived most of his life without her, and there was this idiotic man asking to talk to her. He had laughed bitterly and almost hung up before Yuta started to profusely apologise and explain himself. Then he’d received the letter, and it got a bit too real.

It had been hard for Mark at first, then it’d started to feel like a dream he’d soon wake up from. But now that he’s spent so much time here, sorting through the belongings of someone who had once loved his mother like her own daughter, he’s realised that there is just so much he doesn’t know about his mother it’s probably this part of his life that feels like a dream. 

He thinks about her, standing in the kitchen with a soft smile, humming the song playing on the radio, cutting vegetables so fast Mark watched with fascination instead of doing his homework. He thinks about her, watering the plants on the balcony, surrounded by the dozens of pots and flowers and plants hanging from everywhere, talking to them as if they were friends. He thinks about her, singing him to sleep, checking on him when she would get a glass of water in the middle of the night. 

He thinks about her, his memories of her, and she feels like a presence he entirely made up, like some other kids would make up imaginary friends. There had always been something about her that he thought was normal as a kid, because she was too big for him to grasp, because he was too small to understand. Now, he thinks he understands. She was never meant to stay with them. 

“Mark?”

He comes back to reality, brushing off his memories, and realises Yuta is leaning over him, hand wiping his face. He’s crying and didn’t even notice. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know it’s a lot for you, I wish I could help you more.”

Mark snorts; he can’t help himself. “You’re already doing too much.” 

Yuta keeps looking at him, and smiles like he wants to say more. He stays silent. Mark reaches for his face, putting a loose strand of hair behind his ear; he really can’t help himself. 

“I’m glad I found you,” and Mark thinks at first he means it for the house, but maybe he means it for himself, and it’s enough to make him blush. 

What is he even doing there? Well, he knows what he is doing - he’s letting himself fall. And it feels good for now, because the night seems endless and Yuta is looking at him with his sparkly eyes that never stop feeling magic and his soft smile that is so inviting. And it feels good, but only for now because then the night will end and he will have to leave and go back home, where nothing feels like magic anymore. 

And suddenly, he doesn’t want to go back. 

So he leans on his arms for leverage and kisses Yuta, because it seems to be the only way to make sure magic doesn’t stop, at least for now. The magic is there, in Yuta’s lips, pouring from his tongue, lingering in the trace of his touch. Mark feels himself burning everywhere Yuta touches him, even if his hands remain above his shirt. There is something deep inside him, pulling him towards the other man, and Mark thinks he doesn’t want to resist it at all.

So he doesn’t. 

He lets go of himself and his doubts and his fears and every little thought hanging on for dear life in even the smallest corners of his mind. He lets them go and fills himself with every feeling, every little thing Yuta does and says against his lips. He’s not even sure whether they’re kissing anymore, the only thing he knows for sure is that whatever they are doing, he’s loving it. 

“Don’t stop…” he whispers softly, opening his eyes again to look back at the sky for a second. 

“I’m not going anywhere, angel, but it’s getting a bit cold here. We should go back inside.” 

Mark sits up with a dazed look, hands gripping the blankets under him. The magic is half gone and keeps pouring out of him, sobering him up even faster than he got drunk on Yuta. He wants to sit there for hours and freak out about what he’s just done, because why the hell is he kissing an almost stranger on a rooftop thinking of magic and shooting stars? 

But Yuta has brought everything back inside and is looking back at him from the window, hand extended towards him, obviously waiting for Mark to join him. 

How could he even refuse?

  
  


They don’t go to bed immediately, but when they do, Mark lays as close to Yuta as he can without touching him. The blankets are fluffy and heavy on him, Cinnamon is purring somewhere near his feet and it’s getting harder and harder to stay awake. He manages though, eyes fixed on Yuta. 

His hair is tied in a loose french braid now and only the wildest strands have escaped to rest on his forehead. He looks exhausted and Mark wants to tell him it’s ok, they can just go to sleep, but he doesn’t want the night to end; he can only hope Yuta doesn’t want it to end either. 

“Aren’t you tired?” Yuta whispers, blatantly ignoring his own fatigue. 

“I am,” Mark shrugs, “but I don’t want to sleep yet…” he admits eventually, feeling his cheeks turn red. 

“Me neither,” Yuta mirrors, his smile growing even fonder. 

They don’t do much after that, mostly whispering soft stories and looking at the other. Mark’s left hand is playing with Yuta’s right one, following the veins and the lines of his palm. He feels giddy and it’s mostly from sleep but also from the feeling boiling inside of him. Words are running in circles inside his brain and they come out of his mouth too jumbled, too blurry, and he stops talking. Yuta simply giggles and Mark wants to kiss him until he stops wanting him so much. 

He doesn’t think he could ever stop wanting him but it’s worth trying so he kisses him, softly, messily, tiredly. It’s not ideal, laying down on their side with how tired they are, and Yuta pushes him on his back. Mark’s hands clutch on his shoulders before sliding up to his hair. His fingers curl up in his braid, pulling and letting go immediately, not wanting to mess it up. He wants to focus on Yuta, on his lips, but there is just too much going on at the same time. They’re kissing and Yuta’s hands are under his shirt, hot and rough, and he’s laying against him and Mark’s brain has probably melted out of his skull but he can’t find it in himself to care. 

“Oh Mark,” he mumbled softly, foreheads touching and lips hovering. “I wish I could keep you to myself.”

Mark whimpers, surprised by the sudden confession. He opens his eyes to observe the other’s face, how his eyes can’t settle and the redness of his lips and the way his whole face is frowning. He doesn’t say it but he wishes the same: staying here in Yuta’s arms, where nothing can touch him. The mere thought of it makes him laugh, a short bitter sound escaping his lips. 

“I have a life waiting for me back home,” he ends up saying for lack of better words. 

Yuta lies closer to him, nestled against his shoulder; a sigh escapes his lips. 

“I know. You have to leave,” and Mark thinks Yuta sounds as hurt as he feels. He wants to take that pain away but knows it’s out of his depth. 

He bit off more than he could chew. 

“If I wanted to come back, would you let me?” Mark whispers after a long moment spent looking into his eyes. 

This time, Yuta closes them. They remain closed for so long he thinks he may have fallen asleep without answering, and it’s probably for the best. The possibility of coming back would eat him alive. He lets his right hand slip into the other man’s, squeezing for a second before closing his own eyes. It’s so peaceful he thinks he can hear Cinnamon snoring from downstairs. 

“I’d wait for you,” Yuta whispers, so soft and so delicate it sounds like a secret spell that hasn’t been spoken in centuries. 

It might as well be, because Mark can’t think of anything else as he feels his body fall asleep slowly. 

  
  


Next morning Yuta insists on making him breakfast, so Mark sits at the table and watches him cook, an odd impression of déjà-vu settling over him. Yuta doesn't say a word, seemingly unbothered by the situation, so Mark doesn't dare break the silence. It's almost as if he isn't about to leave never to come back. 

It's almost as if the bubble isn't about to burst in a second. 

Mark thinks, he shouldn’t depict it as a forever goodbye. The house isn’t sold yet, Yuta said he’ll keep in touch about it and make sure to tell him everything about it. They’re bound to bump into each other again, somehow, someway. 

Yet sitting here, listening to his soft laughter, remembering how soft his skin felt against his just the night before feels almost too distant of a memory. The bubble has kept him safe this long and won’t hold a second longer. The spell will wear off eventually, and he’ll be thrown back into his dull daily life like none of this has ever happened. The fear he’ll be left with nothing but his own memory to hold onto his feelings is creeping on him and he feels the urge to look all around. 

“Are you ok?” Yuta asks, a hand on his shoulder as he stands to put their cups in the sink. 

“Hm? Oh yeah. Simply distracted.” 

Mark wants to smile but it doesn’t come out properly. He sighs, too anxious to pretend he’s fine. 

“All of this simply feels…” he motions for the whole room around them for emphasis, because he lacks the words but it’s just too important ; he needs Yuta to know. “When I think of my time here, it feels like it hasn’t happened for real. As if… as if I dreamt the whole thing.”

He swallows over the lump in his throat but it doesn’t disappear ; he’s too afraid to look up at Yuta. 

“Mark. Mark, look at me please.”

He does turn his head around after a moment, facing Yuta directly. He’s crouching in front of him, expression unreadable. To be honest, this man has been unreadable all along, a mystery turned human. It doesn’t make him less loveable, Mark thinks, mesmerized by how his hair catches the morning light. 

“I can’t promise you much and I won’t tell you white lies to make you feel better for a few minutes, but I can say that much: everything that has happened here is real. It mattered, at least for me.” 

Yuta’s hand feels a bit too rough on his cheek but he doesn’t pull away. He wants to stay like this for a moment more, the longest a moment could be. The magic rooting him here doesn’t seem to want to let him leave either and it makes his departure only more painful. 

“For me too.”

“I know. And I know you’d stay if you could.”

The silence draws on, until it can’t anymore. Mark has to leave now. 

Yuta walks him back to his car, helping with his bags. They don’t speak a word on the way; Mark doesn’t think he could make his jaw unclench enough to mutter a single word. Every single one of his belongings is packed up and safely put away in his car, keys in his hand, glasses on his head. He’s all nice and ready, and Yuta looks prettier than ever in the morning glow. Mark is sure he’d find him even prettier if he were to see him the next day, and the day after. 

This thought in mind, he walks to him and embraces him, speechless. Soft like the wind, Yuta embraces him too, fingers clutching his coat. When they separate, Yuta has something in his right hand. 

“This is for you,” he confesses as he puts a small bag in Mark’s hand. “I made it with the flowers from my garden, put it under your pillow and it’ll help you sleep better.”

Mark takes it, a bit puzzled, and looks at it properly. It’s a white fabric bag, probably handmade, and the smell is strong enough to carry up to his nose even through the morning breeze. He turns it around and notices the pretty embroidery, a bouquet of blue flowers he doesn’t recognise, and just under it, in loopy writing, the sentence:

_ “Our last dream”. _

“Thank you,” he croaks out, hardly keeping his tears at bay. “I’ll treasure it.”

“And I’ll treasure your memory,” Yuta whispers, hand on his cheek. 

After a few more words, he leaves him there, having to go back home and prepare for the market. Mark puts the present on the seat next to him as he drives, music trying to drown his thoughts. He can’t stop thinking, however, of how pretty Yuta looked, and how sad his eyes seemed. 

When he goes back home, sore and tired from hours of driving, he barely has the force to feed himself and get changed into his pyjamas, but he does remember right before bed to put the tiny flower bag under his pillow. He falls asleep immediately, sound and safe. And if meets an ethereal man in his dreams again, it’s nothing but his own secret to keep. After all, the magic might have been in his imagination only, but he knows for sure his feelings for Yuta are the realest things he's felt in a while. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading so far ♡
> 
> [tumblr](https://umiwomitai.tumblr.com) [twt](https://twitter.com/_tildawn) [cc](https://curiouscat.me/umiwomitai)


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